by Patty Jansen
She put a thick slice of bread on my plate, grey in colour with a swirl of brown. It smelled of roasted almonds. My stomach rumbled.
“What code is it?”
“The Delegate can eat everything on the table. Barresh has a gentle climate and we are not so desperate that we need to eat food with nasty poisons.” A glare at Thayu.
Thayu returned the glare. “And if some of us didn’t have such delicate stomachs, there would be no nasty poisons.”
Enough. I placed my hands on the table, as if I was about to get up. “If you two are going to be like this to each other, that’s fine, but at least tell me what it’s about, do it somewhere else, or shut up and stop sniping at each other!”
Oh, Delegate, much too direct.
Eirani stared out the window, her face impassive.
Thayu looked down at her empty bowl, lips twitching.
So they were going to be stubborn. Fine! Just fine, for crying out loud. As if I didn’t have enough trouble already.
We ate in total silence. I tore pieces off the bread, and picked at some salad. I made an effort to try at least a bit of every dish. Eirani supplied me with more fish, an orange meat with a strong salt-and-pepper taste.
But my thoughts were in the communication hub, that dark place devoid of daylight, where there might be messages from Danziger, and my stomach seemed to have taken leave of its normal appetite.
I took my reader and thumbed it into life, shifted my chair so I faced the window, and dragged my tea closer.
The reader’s screen had come up with the material Danziger had sent. I studied the maps, the detailed plans of apartment blocks, water storage, canteens, covered walkways, tube trains. Why had Danziger said nothing about this discovery when I spoke to him?
Even Sirkonen must have known. Then another thought: was there more on the datastick than weather maps? Oh, damn.
I fished it out of my pocket and inserted it in my reader. It whirred and whirred, but nothing came up on the screen.
I took it out and put it back in. The same thing happened.
Damn, the laundry. While most data media were waterproof, who said they were resistant to soap?
“Anything wrong?” Thayu asked.
I shook my head, pulled the datastick out again, and put it back. It whirred, but nothing came up. Sweat broke out on my upper lip.
Thayu still stared at me. I was doubly glad I had removed the feeder. Someone had put her in this apartment with me for a purpose, I was sure of that. What if the purpose was to get her hands on this data and destroy it so as to destroy evidence of Asto’s guilt?
She looked at the reader. “It’s not working? Let me have it and I’ll see what I can do.”
No, I couldn’t have that. “No, it’s fine.”
Eyebrows rose. “It makes that noise when it refuses to read.”
“I’m not sure you could fix it. The data is not recorded according to the Asto system.”
She gave me a sharp, what-do-you-think-I-am look. “I don’t know that a different system should be a problem. Hedron uses different coding, too. The principles of each are similar. It’s a matter of reading binary code, then just applying formulas of how many bits there are to a byte.”
That shook me more than anything else. She didn’t know Isla, but she knew those words. What was she—a trained network spy? She was right about the data of course. Although different systems used different conventions, all digital technology was based on the same principles.
No, I decided. I couldn’t let her have it. Not at all. Not until I knew Asto’s intentions. Not until I knew that secret she’d almost let slip this morning in the assembly hall. “Thanks for offering, but I think I can manage.”
I was no ace at computer skills, but I did have a program on my reader that might help me—at least I thought I had copied it after that course I had attended on data recovery. If I couldn’t find it, or if it didn’t work, I would ask assistance from a specialist at Nations of Earth. Failing that . . . I remembered how in Sirkonen’s office, a man in Special Services uniform had taken a copy. There would be copies on Earth.
* * *
When I finished eating, I took the datastick and my reader back into the communication room. Alone.
For some reason, a conversation I’d had with Amarru came into my mind. We’d been sitting in her office sipping hot cups of manazhu. It had been winter, and the cityscape outside the window was bleak and grey.
She’d said, “Between you and me, Cory, I’m convinced that one of the reasons Seymour Kershaw committed suicide was that he had become isolated. He found it hard to trust people, even those we had sent to work with him.”
Amarru, of course, had gone through the whole crisis; she was a lot older than me.
I had been so convinced that isolation and lack of trust would never be my problems. I had a zhayma. I would run an open system, encourage people to inquire, and I’d give open answers to all of them. But in hindsight, that was just a load of bullshit.
In the real world, people spied and cheated and went behind your back.
In the real world, you couldn’t trust everyone, maybe not even anyone.
I sank into the chair and activated the Exchange connection. While the icon crawled over the projection, I rummaged on the seat, found Thayu’s translator, and pressed both on and off buttons for a few seconds to completely flatten the charge. Even if the office downstairs held a supply of charged pearls, she’d have to go there first, and I would have time to get material out of her reach.
Damn, I was starting to think like a detective now.
I shoved the datastick in my reader.
Luckily, I found the program in one of my tucked-away folders which I didn’t use often. I followed the instructions, but no matter what settings I used, the program wouldn’t read the undamaged part of the file. My heart thudded in my throat. Did that mean that all of it was damaged?
The connection icon for the Exchange was still crawling at the bottom of the projection. Wonderful. Out of all times, the link chose this moment to play up.
I brought up the gamra link—it worked fine—and entered my code.
A number of messages came up. A news report on my first appearance in zhamata, generally favourable. A report from Shey’ shamata, the major news service of Asto, on Nicha’s capture, forwarded on by staff in the office downstairs. I guessed the local lawkeeper Inu Azimi who was mentioned was the same person as Nixie Chan. That made sense. Azimi clan were administrators. The report said, Meanwhile, Inu has assured Nicha’s family in Beratha that help will be asked for when the local officials keep stalling his release.
There was also a message from Nicha’s father, I am getting impatient about my son. Please advise on your progress in negotiations.
I cringed, seeing Asto military craft descend on Rotterdam. I had no progress to report. Nicha was a hostage, along with two hundred thousand other Coldi. After having seen Danziger’s material, I doubted if there was going to be a peaceful solution.
That link to Earth still wouldn’t work.
Oh goddamn it! This isn’t helpful, people, not helpful at all.
I fiddled with the reader and discovered another option on the recovery program that was called map file. When I selected it, a solid block of numbers and letters came onto the screen.
Hexadecimal code, I guessed, because the numbers went up to nine and the letters up to F. I turned on the projector so I could see a greater section of the data and scrolled up, and then down, feeling stupid.
Whatever had given me the notion that I would be able to fix this file? I was a diplomat, and knew nothing about the inner workings of computers. Nicha had usually taken care of that. Coldi were good with num
bers, and binary and hexadecimal numbers ran in their blood, since they counted everything in exponentials of two. The exceedingly complicated counting system reflected the Coldi sense of outward-spreading spider veins of a network. In Coldi, one, two, three, four, five really meant two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, representing an ever-increasing circle of influence. In Coldi societies, you could not subtract five from sixteen and arrive at a workable number. Mathematicians had devised notations for anomalies like the number eleven. There was spoken mathematics and absolute mathematics. Coldi children learned both from birth.
And here I am, not trusting the only person in this apartment who can help me.
I scrolled further down.
There were gaps in the data, all over the file.
“That’s artificial,” a voice said near the door.
I gasped and whirled around.
Thayu leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. How long had she been standing there?
“Artificial?”
“Yes, don’t you see it?” Professional-you. She strode forward, scrolled back up. “Look at the data pattern here.” She pointed at the image. “And down here.” She pointed again.
I didn’t see anything except numbers, numbers and more numbers, and random gaps. “See this pattern? It repeats all over, at regular intervals. This is from the damaged file, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“This damage was deliberately caused. Whatever was on this, someone didn’t want you to read this information, or wanted to destroy proof. Is it important?”
“I don’t know.” What a lame answer. How about: a president has been murdered over this? But why? Did she know?
Maybe, I decided; but before I questioned her, there was one other person in this household who might know more.
I pushed myself up from my seat. “I think it’s time I have a bath.”
* * *
A bit after midday, of course, was not the appropriate time for a bath, but Eirani came with me nevertheless, bringing her basket of towels and soaps. She didn’t question the strange timing, and that in itself might be a sign.
I undressed, sank into the water and sat back on the underwater bench. Eirani unloaded the contents of the basket onto a bench, and spread out towels and clean clothing, in a way more meticulous than previously. She cast me glances when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Finally, she asked, “Does the Delegate wish to retire early today? The Delegate was up most of last night.”
“No, Eirani. I want to ask you something, in private.”
She froze, a towel in her hand. “Does the Delegate need to go into the bath for that?”
“I do.” There was only one bug in the bathroom, in the far corner, and with a bit of luck, our voices would echo too much to be intelligible.
“Eirani, where did you take my jacket to be washed?”
“To the laundry. It has come back, hasn’t it? I—”
“When you took it, did you know about the thing in the pocket?” I made sure I splashed water over my shoulders as I said this.
“Delegate?” Her cheeks coloured. “I don’t check clothing for private items.”
“But you knew it was there when you took it out of the bathroom, didn’t you? And you knew that someone at the laundry would be interested in it.”
She opened and closed her mouth several times, like a fish on dry land. “I . . . don’t know what the Delegate is talking about.”
Oh, the innocence.
“Eirani, as I have told you, I am perfectly capable of washing myself. You may find it unusual, but I have lived independently, and I can cook and wash my own clothes. You know that my funds are tight. It is my bet everyone on the island knows this. But in the time I’ve been here, no one has presented me with an account for staying in this apartment, which is obviously beyond my capacity to pay. To me, that means someone wants me here, like someone who is spying on me.” I let that sink in for a bit; she showed no emotion, and then I asked, “Who is your boss, Eirani, and what does he want?”
“My . . .” Her mouth fell open. “I don’t have—”
“Yes, you do.”
I let the silence build and slipped under the water. I rubbed my face, and came back up, my heart thudding. It had been stupid perhaps, to come here alone. But when the water cleared from my eyes, she was still staring at me, and hadn’t produced a weapon.
I pulled myself onto the underwater bench, out of her reach, and sat, semi-lazily, trying to look as relaxed as possible. My heart was thudding like crazy.
“Eirani, I understand that you have ties of loyalty that conflict with mine. I understand that my living here is a favour of me to you, rather than the other way around. I agree to it. The apartment is pleasant and the food is good.”
She merely blinked at me.
“But in the future, Mr Renkati can ask for information I have, and if I’m free to do so, I might share it. You understand that?”
“Yes, Delegate.”
“Also, you can pass onto Mr Renkati that if he wants, he can come and meet me, and tell me what he’s about. Destroying the data isn’t helping anyone. The information will be recovered, one way or another. There are other copies. Tell him that, too.”
“Yes, Delegate.” She looked down, all her taciturn arrogance wiped from her face.
I stirred in the water. “If you’re still keen, I’d like you to wash my hair, Eirani.”
She sank onto her knees and put soap in my hair. Her hands trembled.
Mr Renkati: one, Cory Wilson: one.
When I came out of the bathroom, my hair still wet, but neatly tied in a ponytail, I nearly crashed into Thayu, who came rushing from the hall.
“There was a message from Ezhya Palayi. He says he will be delighted to see you right now.”
Chapter 17
* * *
DELIGHTED TO SEE me; that was a bit steep. Knowing the situation, I had no idea why Ezhya Palayi should be delighted to see me. The game continued, but I was ready to play it.
I’d ask my questions, clear and direct. What does Asto know of this plan, and do you realise Nations of Earth see it as a provocation? and Does this matter bear any relationship to the murder of the president?
In like a kamikaze pilot. Accuse the most powerful leader, out of all gamra member entities, of murder. I had to be the biggest idiot in the universe.
Thayu led me over the gallery and down the steps. It was just at the midafternoon break and people crowded the steps and the plaza below. In the throng of delegates in the staircase, many threw me curious glances, or spoke congratulatory words about my first appearance, which I acknowledged with a polite nod while trying to focus on what I would say in the meeting.
Part of me found it hard not to feel awed. Ezhya Palayi had been in my life for a long time. I remembered when I was five or six, and my mother was still alive, when the entire world watched news reports showing the arrival in Athens of Asto’s Chief Coordinator on his first ever official visit.
At the time, Earth was just emerging from the anarchy of what historians now called the Third World War, but which was a series of conflicts over hot spots in the Middle East and Central Asia, and which had dragged on for the best part of fifty years. The fighting had been more contained than expected, but had done major damage to what remained of Earth’s already-depleted oil fields. Beyond that, the damage was psychological. Poor countries, feeling the double-whammy of changing climate and financial pressure, had affected boycotts. Deep distrust had paralysed the UN and as a result, richer nations, the US in the lead, had refused to pay their contributions, reducing it to an organisation which represented the poorest. As revenge, co
ntinued boycotts had destroyed a number of major economies and their governments. The US, China and India had split along equity lines. That came on top of climatic disasters. By the end of the century, large parts of the world suffered hunger and lack of water.
Even in unaffected countries, like where I grew up in New Zealand, people were hurting, clamouring for hope. Many had lost family members, in the wars or in countries which had descended into chaos. Others had lost their houses, or all their life’s savings. A diversion, any diversion, was welcome.
Gamra planned their coming out well.
The people had liked what they saw of Ezhya Palayi: his sleek shimmering aircraft—it had been one of the few times that a gamra based aircraft had openly landed at a regular airport—and how he bounded down the gangplank and met the brand-new Nations of Earth president, then the moustachioed Pedro Gonzales. Ezhya Palayi was young, handsome, and his smile oh-so charismatic. A fake smile, I later realised, because the Coldi smile was a much more intimate expression than it was on Earth, and Coldi didn’t smile at strangers. But his minders had taught him well about Earth manners, including smiling, and the people had lapped it up.
This would be the man, with his technology, to lift them from their misery. People loved to dream, after all.
And what a dream it had been. The Coldi had fallen from saviours to invaders in the space of twenty years, despite, or maybe because of, the investments, the businesses, the technology they had brought, things that had been going on since the crash landing of a ship carrying two political refugees from Asto on a remote beach on the Greek island of Kea in 1961.
I eyed Thayu’s swishing ponytail. An invasion? She wouldn’t want to live on Earth—not warm enough. Earth had its fair share of problems, overcrowding being one of the more serious ones. Asto was overcrowded, too. There were many other worlds which were fertile and underpopulated. The Coldi hadn’t invaded Ceren, their neighbouring planet, either, so why would they invade Earth? Surely if they wanted to do that, they would have already done so.
